


An Elder Scrolls Legend: Irellin

by TheWritingWitch



Category: An Elder Scrolls Legend: Battlespire, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25067413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingWitch/pseuds/TheWritingWitch
Summary: Irellin, Dunmer hero of the Battlespire and former apprentice Battlemage has been woken after two hundred years in magical stasis, over a century later than intended.Emperor Uriel Septim VII is dead and his Empire in shambles, Irellin has made his way to Skyrim and is attempting to gain enough power to beat back the Thalmor and protect the few people he has left.With a Daedric Prince interfering in his affairs and a troubled past haunting his every move, Irellin must be quick and clever to achieve his goals.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	An Elder Scrolls Legend: Irellin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first real work so I apologise if it isn't great, I plan on learning and getting better as I go. I also intend on writing other works that go on during the same general time frame as this with some of my other characters in the future :)  
> This work will be following my character Irellin, both during 'current' times during the Dragon Crisis and over a month into Irellin's Skyrim 'adventure' and also during his time in the Battlespire, two hundred years or so in the past.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Welcome to Nightgate. What can I get ya at this late hour, traveller?” came the gruff voice of a rough looking Nord behind an equally rough looking wooden bar.   
The tall Dunmer in a ragged black fur cloak kicked the snow from his boots before closing the door and warming his hands in the nearby fire pit, hyper aware of the two pairs of eyes on him. One was the barkeep and likely owner, the other from a figure in dark robes watching from the far corner of the inn.  
The flames gently licked his flesh as the residual snow on his cloak began to melt. He wouldn’t generally display his unusual fire resistance so blatantly, especially after the reception he had gotten at Windhelm, but he was freezing. The cruel winds of Skyrim truly deserved their reputation.  
The air was especially warm inside the tavern compared to the icy wasteland he had come in from, but the stink of stale sweat, spilled mead and woodsmoke didn’t make Irellin any happier for being there. At least his innate resistance to fire and heat made it easy to warm up, even if he had been pushing its limit since arriving in Skyrim.  
Almost a minute passed before he replied, “Your strongest ale, please. And some dried meats, if you have any.”  
His accent was almost unheard of in Skyrim, especially after the Red Year. It sounded almost as if he’d been gargling stones from the road with each word that came out of his mouth.  
Upon sufficiently warming himself up, Irellin tossed back the hood on his cloak and strode towards the bar, making a note of the man seemingly hiding in the corner, just in case. He was still watching Irellin, barely even bothering to hide it.  
Despite his telltale crimson eyes and ashen skin, Irellin had very subtle facial bone structure, lacking the severe cheekbones and brow ridge so common amongst his people.  
“I’m Irellin,” the Dunmer said as he sat on the least unpleasant-looking stool at the bar.   
‘This place is a rundown mess, but at least that means it’s more likely to be safe for a while,’ Irellin thought to himself. ‘Though nothing could be as bad as Windhelm was.’  
“Hadring,” replied the Nord barkeep, putting a foul-smelling mug of liquid under Irellin’s nose with a plate of assorted dried fish. Irellin assumed they were from the lake outside, so as fresh as he was likely to get here. Irellin began to move the fish to his food supply bag as Hadring followed up with, “What else can I do ya for, elf?”  
Close up, it was clear that Hadring used to be a warrior of some kind judging by the scars on his arms and face. Likely retired at this point if his baldness and the wrinkles around his face were anything to judge by, though. ‘Well that, and the fact that he’s running an inn,’ Irellin mused.   
This close up, it was hard to tell if it was the drink, the stained bar or Hadring himself that smelled worse. The cocktail of sweat, dry and fresh alcohol reminded Irellin strangely of Battlemage training. Or at least, the party they threw for him and Vatasha when they won entrance to the Battlespire.  
Irellin took a large swig of his drink before responding. It didn’t taste quite as bad as he thought it would. Still pretty bad though, lacking any of the sweetness of a wine from his homeland.  
“I don’t suppose you know where someone could learn more about magic?”  
Despite his calm words and demeanour, Irellin was on edge. From being attacked by the people he should have been serving with the second he entered this divines-forsaken province, the cold reception at Windhelm and the fucking dragon that saved him from execution, it seemed almost everyone either hated him for being an elf, being a magic user or because it was a fucking dragon. Despite this, if Irellin was going to avoid another unpleasant run-in with the Thalmor, he needed to be stronger. He needed to find a teacher, as soon as possible.  
Hadring made an unpleasant grunting sound in the back of his throat and frowned at Irellin, seeming unsurprised but disappointed with the request.  
"Seen enough magic in my day to know to stay away from it. I'd stay away from the Jarl's wizard in Dawnstar too. If you wanna be a damn fool, go to the College in Winterhold instead."   
“The college,” Irellin repeated.   
‘The fourth person to recommend the College to me,’ Irellin thought.  
‘I was hoping to avoid the College in case they’re licking the Altmeri boots like the rest of the Empire is now, but I guess I have little choice,’ Irellin decided.  
“Thank you,” Irellin told Hadring before he could reply, quickly downing the rest of his drink and placing a few coins on the worn bar from a pouch at his waist, avoiding the stains for Hadring’s benefit.  
Irellin was about to ask whether or not Hadring had a room he could stay in for the night when someone tapped his shoulder.  
Tensing, Irellin turned and was faced with an attractive young male Breton with mischievous brown eyes and pointed ears.  
“Did I hear you asking about magic?” He asked.  
Irellin narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing towards the door. Fifteen feet at most, he could make it if need be.  
“Yes,” Irellin replied warily. “Why?”  
The Breton grinned and held out his hand.  
“I’m Sam Guevenne,” he said. “And I have a proposition for you.”  
“What kind of proposition would this be?” Irellin asked, suspicious but shaking Sam’s hand anyway before standing. The Breton was holding a bottle in his other hand, Irellin assumed that he was likely at least a little drunk judging by the smell of him and the odd way his eyes moved as he studied Irellin.   
He knew that Bretons were magically inclined, but this one looked relatively young. If he had spent a lot of his life in Skyrim, there was a good chance he didn’t have the kind of power or knowledge that would be of use to a former Imperial Battlemage.  
‘Technically I was never an official Battlemage,’ Irellin reminded himself.   
After the fall of the Battlespire two hundred years earlier, due to Irellin’s part in slaying the daedra within and casting Mehrunes Dagon out, Uriel Septim VII had offered Irellin a spot as an Eternal Champion, putting him in a magical stasis until he was needed to help defend the Empire.  
‘For all the good that did, he went and got himself killed without waking any of us.’  
“Well,” Sam said with a mischievous grin on his face.   
“I happen to own a staff of incredible power, and have been hoping to find a drinking partner that doesn’t insult me when I try to initiate a conversation.” He spoke as if this was a common occurrence for him. Judging by his own reception in Windhelm, Irellin wasn’t surprised.   
Bretons were still part elf, after all.  
Sam proceeded to look Irellin up and down again, fully taking in the mer before him. Irellin didn’t understand why, he didn’t consider himself much to look at.  
Under Irellin’s fur cloak, he was wearing a dark outfit consisting of loose brown breeches, a black mourner’s tunic tied at the top with thick bronze thread and a large pair of leather hiking boots. He also had some enchanted jewellery, which he had hidden away for the time being.  
For a brief moment, it seemed almost as if Sam recognised Irellin, but he quickly covered the expression and spoke.  
“I’ll tell you what,” Sam said. "How about a friendly drinking contest to win my staff?"  
Irellin hesitated. He was far enough from Windhelm at this point to know he could relax, but he still felt like something was off here. Try as he might to ignore it, a familiar sense of unease was clawing at him.  
But if he could leave this place with something worthwhile…  
“It’s a deal,” Irellin said with a little smirk pulling at his lips.   
“You don’t stand a chance!” Irellin felt like this contest would be fun, despite not normally enjoying things like this. He never was much of a gambler.   
Sam clearly approved of this attitude and gave a big grin.  
"Ha! We'll see about that. This is a special brew, very strong stuff. Let's get started!”  
Sam picked up Irellin’s mug and filled it halfway with a strange dark liquid from his bottle.   
Despite watching it fill the mug, Irellin could swear it didn’t look like the bottle was depleting at all.  
Sam caught Irellin’s eye and gave the mer a wink before quickly pouring the liquid down his throat like he could barely taste it.  
“Your turn,” Sam said, pouring liquid into the mug again and offering it to Irellin.  
Feeling reassured that Sam had just drank from the same bottle, Irellin took the mug and followed Sam’s lead. To his surprise, the liquid had almost no taste or scent. What he could taste was a little bitter, though it wasn’t unpleasant.   
For a brief moment the room seemed to shift and Irellin was glad that the bar was right behind him to lean on.   
“A little stronger than you thought?” Sam asked, a smug smirk on his face.  
“It’s your turn,” Irellin replied, ignoring the question but feeling a small smile spread across his face.   
Irellin couldn’t deny it, Sam was actually fun to be around. He wasn’t going to go easy on the little Breton, however.   
Sam’s enthusiasm was infectious. Or maybe Irellin was just a little drunker than he thought, the familiar off-balance feeling had already set in.  
Sam gave a little laugh at Irellin’s redirection and nodded. “One down,” he said before once again taking the mug, filling it and drinking his half mug of liquid. Irellin looked to see if it had any effect, but Sam seemed to have as little trouble with this brew as he would water.   
“Your turn,” Sam said, handing Irellin the half filled mug again.  
“A second drink,” Irellin said, attempting to ignore the worrying tilt of the room as he took the mug.  
“Easy enough.”  
If anything, the liquid tasted of even less the second time. Irellin didn’t bother thinking on it, he was too distracted by how handsome Sam looked in the light of the nearby fire, a gleeful glint in the Breton’s beautiful brown eyes. And the way his wavy hair framed his face just right...  
“So says you,” Sam said, shattering Irellin’s train of thought.   
“I think I’ve hit my limit on these things,” Sam added with a rueful smile. “Tell you what, one more and you win the contest."   
“One more,” Irellin said, putting the lip of the mug to his lips and downing the liquid again, not realising that Sam hadn’t refilled it this time.  
“No problemsh,” he slurred after finishing it, a stupid grin on his face as he felt a familiar tingling across his whole body. For a moment, Irellin felt as if he were the strongest mer alive.  
Sam laughed and clapped Irellin on the shoulder. “You really did it! The staff is yours, you definitely earned it,” the Breton said before giving Irellin a thoughtful look.   
“Thash grape!” Irellin exclaimed, gently swaying where he stood in order to combat the twisting of the room.  
“You know, you're a fun person to drink with,” Sam said, seeming not to notice or care how drunk Irellin had become.  
“I know this great little place where the wine flows like water. We should head there!”   
Sam grabbed Irellin’s hand and began to pull him toward the door.  
“Trust me, Irellin,” Sam said. “You’re gonna love what I have planned for you.”


End file.
